


A Tale Of Three Stans

by Beleriandings



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Arguing, Brother Feels, Cats, Gen, Gift Giving, Iceland, Journal 3 spoilers, Light Angst, Pines Family Feels, Reconciliation, Sea Stans, Shoplifting, Stan saves the world again, The multiverse, conversations while running from the police, excessive use of Wikipedia, gratuitous pop culture references, minor warning for brief (past) suicidal ideation, nerdy jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-07 00:06:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8775232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: Out adventuring on the sea in the Stan O’ War II, Stan and Ford make a stop on land and meet the last person they would expect.





	

_“The_ _Lagarfljót Worm” read Ford aloud, the blue glow of the laptop screen illuminating his excitedly grinning face, eyes positively shining. “The serpentine creature is said to live in Lagarfljót, a freshwater, below-sea-level, glacial-fed lake with has very poor visibility as a result of siltation.”_

_It was Stan’s turn to cook and he smiled despite himself as he turned around from the narrow stove in the cramped galley kitchen, where he was heating up canned beans in a pot. “Don’t tell me you’re elbow deep in cryptid Wikipedia again. I don’t think your pal McGucket rigged up our internet so that it would work anywhere in the world for that.”_

_“The internet is a wonderful creation of humanity, of which I have missed so much. And Fiddleford knows me too well not to guess what I’d use it for” said Ford, entirely unabashed and pointing at the page with a beseeching look. “Come on Stan, it’s right nearby… if we’re stopping in Iceland for repairs anyway, we can afford a day trip or two…”_

_“Yeah, yeah, we can go find this swamp monster in the dead of winter” said Stan, turning down the gas flame a little. “Just don’t hold out too much hope that the lake won’t be frozen over.”_

_“Yes, that might be a problem” said Ford, quickly opening a new tab. “How quickly do you think we could rent an ice-axe in Reykjavik? Buy one, even? I’m sure that would come in useful again. Or… what about a jackhammer?”_

_Stan pursed his lips. “Much as I’m usually up for a bit of destruction…”_

_“Oh, no, not destruction! It’s just to break through the ice!” said Ford cheerily. “Hmm, on second thoughts maybe we should be trying to be as quiet as possible. In 1983, this poor creature apparently was subjected to having a telephone cable laid over it. Talk about disturbing the habitat. How rude! We must let it know that we mean it no harm.”_

_“Mm-hmm.” Stan put a plate of food beside his brother’s elbow, which was studiously ignored in favour of the laptop screen. “C’mon, Sixer. The weirdness will still be there after, I promise. Eat your dinner.” He poked Ford’s arm. “Yeesh, I can’t believe you’re even worse than Dipper when it comes to… wait, no, I can believe that fine.”_

_Ford looked up at that, smiled, picked up his fork and began to eat, and in that moment, everything seemed okay._

 

Stan scoffed at himself now, remembering that. _Okay?_ Well, maybe sometimes. Most of the time, even.

But, he thought, he should have known better than to expect it to last.

It wasn’t that often that they argued. Certainly not as often as Stan had feared, when they set out; Despite everything, despite how far he had come in rebuilding his relationship with his brother, he was still sometimes seized by a twisting, crawling irrational fear; the fear that it could not last. That it was too good to be true, and he and Ford simply weren’t _meant_ to get along for any decent stretch of time. It came to him sometimes, that fear, from the brief flash of anxiety as they set out from the dock for the very first time, to the long, dark nights of the arctic winter, when they nightmares came the most often. 

Sometimes in nightmares, they argued, dredging up their long buried quarrels. In dark dreams there were worlds where they never reconciled, never could even begin to bridge the gap. Or there were those where the progress they had made was undone, healing wounds ripped open once more as dream Ford turning his back, leaving Stan to wake wide-eyed and sleepless in his swaying bunk until the dim light of a late dawn broke.

But so far, they had only been dreams.

So far, their arguments - for those were inevitable with any two people confined to a small space like their little boat, he told himself - had been little more than petty squabbles over how to share out the cooking and the cleaning, and who would get to talk to the kids first. Well, almost. Sometimes they argued about their health, about taking care of themselves and of each other. Those cut a little deeper. _Ford and his damn nutrition pills, and his insistence on staying up until who knew when in the night, even as he told Stan to get some sleep himself. Lectures about how Stan put himself in the way of too much danger_ \- _and wasn’t that rich, coming from Mr-Wrestle-An-Angry-Kelpie-for-a-dollar-store-LED-torch, Stanford Filbrick “No-Safety-Precautions-Ever” Pines, who nearly gave Stan heart attacks on a daily basis_. But mostly about simpler things like where they should dock, or the true identity of a creature they had seen but had only managed to capture one blurry photo of. Once they had even argued - quite heatedly too - about whether or not the fact that they each remembered the name of a picture book from their childhood differently meant anything fundamental about the state of the universe.

So far, Stan was extremely relieved to admit that his fears had come to nothing. Most of their arguments were affectionate, bringing them closer even, like the playfights they had had on the board walk when they were children. Keeping them both from acting on their impulse to treat the other like they were made of glass. Familiar and friendly sorts of arguments. Certainly none had descended into cold to last decades; they could still stand each other. And yes, Stan had to admit that by all appearances Ford _could_ stand him.

Even so, it certainly did feel too good to be true, some days.

Which was why nervousness always spiked through him when they did argue, however inconsequential it turned out to be.

And this time was no different.

They had stopped in Reykjavik for a few days, mooring the _Stan O’ War II_ in the harbour just as the sun began to set after another short, dark day, clouds rolling in over the slate-coloured ocean and the snowy mountains that circled the bay in which the city lights nestled. The clouds promised a storm tonight.

It really was cold, here. Stan knew he should stay on the boat, lest he freeze when the snow came, as surely it must.

Ford had gone off on his own several hours ago, after they had argued on the quayside. Stan cursed in frustration under his breath, jamming his hands into the pockets of his thickest jacket as he sloped unhappily down the street.

It hadn’t even been about anything important, either.

 

_Conditions on the open sea could change very quickly; that was something Stan had been warned about so many times he was sick of hearing it._

_He had never thought it was meant like this though._

_They had stood on the quayside amidst piled, old snow, dirty from the road that ran along the harbour, separating it from the city proper. Ford’s back was turned to him. He was holding one of his weirdness detectors in his hands, turning the little black plastic-and-duct-tape box over and over in nervous fingers._

_“I just… need to go do something in the city, Stanley” said Ford, his voice alone enough to make Stan suspicious. “I promise, there’s nothing…” he took a deep breath, fiddling with his watch nervously, “…there’s nothing wrong. I would tell you if there was.”_

_“Would you?” Anxiety was crowding up Stan’s throat; he hadn’t entirely meant to say that out loud. But now it was too late, as Ford was turning to face him, mild annoyance in his eyes becoming wounded anger._

_“Yes, Stan! Yes I would!”_

_“So tell me then!”_

_Ford balled his hands into fists at his sides. “I… I need to check something first.”_

_“What?”_

_“I… I_ can’t _. Not yet, anyway.”_

_“Huh. Right.” Pain tore at Stan’s heart, pain and fear, for maybe this was it, maybe this was the beginning of Ford leaving. He would be powerless to prevent it, was the cause of it, even. “It’s okay, Ford” He sat down heavily on a concrete barrier and folded his arms. “I get it. I do.”_

_“No you don’t” said Ford vehemently, his hands jammed hard into his pockets. He looked tense, fearful._

_“Yeah I do. It’s taken you long enough, but you’ve realised I’m holding you back…”_

_Ford rolled his eyes. “Stanley, I know you play dumb sometimes to trick people, but you’re not fooling me. I know you’re too smart to honestly believe that.”_

_“Then tell me I’m wrong.”_

_He drew himself up haughtily as if about to argue back, then let out his breath with a sigh. “I need to… run some tests. I swear I will tell you if it becomes relevant to our lives. In the meantime, I suggest you stay in the boat and call the kids. Please apologise to them on my behalf that I am absent.”_

_He was doing it again, thought Stan, growing angrier by the second. That cold, detached voice Ford had affected - a defence, in truth - when Stan had first brought him back home through the portal._

_But why?_

_Stan wanted to find out, but not badly enough to overcome the unpleasant mixture of irritation and apprehension that was filling him._

_“Fine” he snapped, sitting stubbornly still. “You go. But I’m not calling the kids while you’re gone. I’m not going to talk to them and tell them you just upped and left me. And I’m sure not gonna make any excuses for you.”_

_Ford stiffened, his eyes growing a little wide before he resumed his mask. “We’ll talk about this later” he said, and, with a flourish, he turned and strode off along the dockside._

 

And now Ford was gone, off into the city without him, and Stan was left alone. Ford would be back soon, he knew. He would always come back, that much he had assured Stan, quietly one day a few weeks into their travels. And Stan believed him; Stan trusted his brother, just as Ford trusted him.

But that didn’t stop the fear crawling up from a dark little corner of his mind, irrational and plain _stupid_ , but more stubborn than the barnacles on the hull of the boat.

Stan kicked at a letterbox and winced at the pain that went through his foot. If Ford thought Stan would just stay here on his own waiting for him to come back he had another thing coming, impending storm or not. He wanted to take a walk, to feel solid ground under his feet, as much as he had grown used to the feeling of a swaying deck.

That was what it was. He wasn’t scared, and he damn well wasn’t going _looking_ for his brother, who had only been gone half an hour. Definitely not; after all, he was just taking a walk.

_In the gathering dark in an unfamiliar city, with a winter storm rolling in off the sea._

_Yes, definitely needed some air. Just couldn’t wait until the morning._

He glared at the asphalt, and at the hulking piles of plowed snow. This town was supposed to be pretty, he had heard, and maybe in daylight it was. But this stretch of dock was ugly and industrial, with heavy ships and concrete and iron on one side, and a busy highway on the other, truck lights glimmering away into the distance around the curve of the bay.

After a few minutes of following the line of the dock, he came to a junction where the road branched off into several smaller ones, one of which appeared to lead into the town itself. He crossed hastily - _was jaywalking illegal here?_ Maybe, but right now he didn’t care - and slipped down a pedestrianised street, flanked by leafless trees. He smiled for a moment then; the houses he was passing now were bright and homely looking. _Cute,_ he could almost imagine Mabel saying. The streets were narrower here, and it felt like the sort of place that would be easy to get lost in.

 _Damn it Ford, if you’re wandering about in this place just because we had a dumb fight over nothing_ …

The thought was banished from his mind though, as he stepped into a street that was clearly the centre of town. Brightly lit cafes and tourist shops lined each side - he had to remind himself that it was only late afternoon, despite the darkness - tinny radio music and the promise of warmth beckoning him inside as he passed, a chance to dispel the cold that was biting at his cheeks. He shivered even in his cold weather gear, suddenly glad, despite himself, that he had the warm boat to go back to whenever he wanted. He suddenly remembered several nights spent in his car, or in unheated rooms with leaking roofs and mouldy carpets and his fingers going numb and purple. Alaska had been bad for that, his shoes sodden with dirty snowmelt and the only warmth the scant glow of his cigarette lighter and the conciliatory burn of cheap whisky - practically lighter fuel itself, that stuff - in the back of his throat after he was chased away from that burning trashcan that some other guys were huddling around for warmth. Driving away in the night with the bottle in the glove compartment, wondering if he was glad or not that the road was deserted in every direction, quite straight and flat with nothing likely to cause a crash or make him run off the road by accident.

That had been a low point. One of many.

This, though, was not. He felt more confident of that than ever, having just recalled that particular night - what he could of it - and comparing it to today. There was really no contest, for at least now his brother was back with him, even if Ford was - temporarily - acting weirdly. And besides, the kids were there too, only a phonecall away if he needed cheering up.

That thought made everything feel slightly better, and Stan stood up a little taller, a little more resolute, and went into the nearest souvenir shop. Old habits died hard it seemed; whenever they stopped on land, he was always going into such places, as though he still needed to scope out the competition. He supposed he’d never really stop, whether or not Ford got bored and uncomfortable waiting around for him. Except, that was, when they were looking for a gift for Dipper and Mabel. Stan peered around, looking at necklaces made of what looked like spongey rock, a box of shimmering polished stone eggs - _they look like dragon eggs from one of those nerd stories Dipper loves,_ he thought with no small affection - some plastic sheep figurines, a talking, rather disturbing looking plastic volcano operated by batteries.

There was also, in one corner, a stack of scarves, hats, gloves and sweaters and a basket filled with balls of yarn. It didn’t take Stan long to focus in one those, as they reminded him so much of Mabel. _Oh yeah, Icelandic wool was supposed to be famous or something._ Meaning this place was basically Mabel’s dream country. He squinted the price tag, saw a few too many zeros and nearly ran out there and then, before remembering that the currency was different.

 _Talking of currency, though_ … Stan swore under his breath once more, as he realised he had no usable money on him.

 _Ah well_ , he thought with a small smile that he hid from the bored-looking teenage girl at the desk. _Back to the old tried and tested way then_. At least this time it was for the kids’ sake.

Nonchalantly, he stepped back past the rack of gifts once more, slipping three of the polished egg-stones into his pocket under the cover of looking at some shirts hanging on the wall. Then he sidled over to the wool section, pretending to try on a hat - craning for the mirror and in the meantime, stuffing several balls of wool inside his jacket. Purple, he decided, for Mabel.

His hand lingered over a ball of red wool, for a long second.

He couldn’t knit, but if he could, he had the sudden wild notion that he’d like to knit Ford a sweater.

 _There were red sweaters there amongst the pile of knitwear too, he didn’t even have to teach himself to knit to make this particular peace offering_ …

He sighed. _That stubborn nerd probably wouldn’t wear it though;_ Ford was too attached to his ancient one filled with holes that were either from moths or burned through by stray sparks from one of his inventions, it was unclear which.

Still, Stan considered it. He glanced discretely at the mirror, though, and with an inward scowl he caught the girl at the counter eyeing him suspiciously. _Damn_. He needed a distraction now, probably to actually buy something to divert her attention from all the things for the kids he had inside his jacket.

Swiftly, he rearranged his face into a grin, turning around to meet her gaze.

( _That was one thing he would always be good at, at least_.)

“Hello!” he said loudly and jovially, in his best impression of a clueless American tourist. In truth, he didn’t know any Icelandic, so it wasn’t particularly hard. He held up the red sweater. “I’d like… to buy this.”

The girl nodded. “Eighteen thousand Króna” she said, in crisp, barely accented English that frankly made Stan feel bad about his own lack of language skills.

He narrowed his eyes. That sounded like a lot. He wished he’d thought to check the exchange rate before doing this. _But hell, when had Stan Pines ever come prepared for anything in his life_? “Yeah, ‘bout that…” he said. “You take Stan bucks?”

The girl raised a highly sceptical eyebrow. “Stan… bucks?”

“Uhhh…” Stan rooted in his pocket, scribbled quickly on the back of a scrap of paper in his pocket. “It’s money!” he yelled triumphantly, then turned and ran for the door. “Nice country ya got here, gotta go now though, bye!”

The cold air hit his face once more as he launched himself back into the street. It was properly dark now, but he still shrank from the orange pools of light cast by the streetlights. The paving stones glimmered with fresh fallen snowflakes and he shuddered as he felt one fall down inside his scarf and into the collar of his jacket as he ran into an alley a little way off, suddenly plunging away from the main shopping street. He ran a little further on, deep into a tightening maze of darker, quieter residential streets.

After a while, when he was in a deserted back alley and quite certain that no one was after him, he stopped, leaning his hands on his knees and feeling a little winded. _Huh, apparently living on a boat and fighting the occasional sea monster wasn’t as good a way of staying in shape as regularly having to run from the authorities or save the kids, or possibly both at once. Who’d have thought_.

Still, he was sure he had gotten away. He smiled; he even had the gifts for the kids - and the sweater he had impulse-stolen too, apparently - safely tucked inside his jacket. Now it was just a matter of getting back.

…Which might not be so easy in itself, Stan realised with a sinking feeling, as he looked around him. The street signs were no help, as he didn’t have a map, and even the sky was completely dark with cloud. It was quiet, behind these houses with their small backyards and garages, and oddly lonely, as more snow began to fall, lifted by the wind in swirling eddies in the narrow lane.

Stan was just thinking about how he had managed to get himself so lost so quickly, when something touched his shins, and he flinched a little, stifling a yell. A moment later he felt foolish though, when he looked down to see that it was a fluffy orange and white cat, which had slipped out from behind a pile of grey snow and was rubbing its cheek affectionately against his legs.

It had green eyes, which was a relief; those cats with slitted yellow eyes unnerved him, these days. For a moment he muttered grumpily under his breath before bending down - his knee joints cracking - and grudgingly giving the cat’s ears a scratch. The cat started purring, evidently enjoying the treatment.

He sighed. “I’m glad you’re having a good day at least. Somehow I managed to fuck up in a whole bunch of ways today… y’know those sorts of days?” He laughed then. “Course you don’t. You’re a cat.”

The cat meowed, and despite the lack of content of the response Stan was glad of the sentiment. “Eh, you ain’t such bad company” Stan confided. He wondered if the cat was a stray. “Got no collar? So are you on the run too?”

More meowing, and the softness of fur under his gloved fingers, thought they were growing numb in the cold despite the thick blue wool, lovingly knitted by Mabel.

Stan didn’t know how long he knelt there petting the purring cat - and really, what was he doing? - but he was just beginning to collect himself and think of trying to find the docks again when the cat froze, hissing, its whiskers standing on end even in the rising icy wind.

“What?” asked Stan, as the cat immediately bolted away from his touch and away around the corner. “What did I…”

He broke off; he had just turned back, looking over his shoulder, where the cat’s eyes had been fixed.

A figure loomed out of the darkness, like a piece cut out from the stormy black-grey sky behind him, in the narrow alley. Stan got quickly to his feet, hands slipping into his pockets; his brass knuckles were very cold from the weather, but they’d serve him well if this guy was trouble.

Whoever it was certainly _looked_ menacing; broad-shouldered and wrapped in some sort of heavy black coat or cloak, what looked like a large and bulky case carried on their back adding to the distorted strangeness of that silhouette. As Stan watched, two blazing orange lights shone suddenly where eyes should have been, deep within a hood… but no, he realised, banishing the momentary horror he had felt. Not eyes, merely the streetlamp behind him reflecting off some sort of glasses, or perhaps goggles. But it also reflected off something else in that moment, cold metal directed at him. The barrel of a gun.

“Whoa, whoa…” said Stan, raising his hands. “Look pal, I don’t know who you think you are or what you want, but if you’re trying to get money from me you’re really gonna be disappointed…”

“…It can’t be…. _Stanley_ …?”

Stan’s jaw dropped. He knew that voice, muffled though it was by a scarf, he could see now as the figure advanced on him, stepping into the light. He frowned, very deeply. “…. _Ford_?”

Silence. The figure simply stared at him, frozen and tilting its head, the gun still pointing at Stan’s head but apparently now forgotten.

The gun held in a leather-gloved, six-fingered hand.

“Ford…” choked out Stan again. “Dammit, Ford, what the - look, can you put that gun down?”

Ford’s shoulders hunched defensively, but he did lower the gun a little. Not much though. “Get in the light” he demanded, voice harsh, guarded, “where I can see you.”

“Ford, what’s going on?” asked Stan with an exasperated sigh, as he let his brother walk him back into the full light of the streetlight, the snow coming down all around them. His hat and his hair were both wet now, and he was starting to get very cold. “I’ve been looking all over for you!” _Well it was sort of true, anyway_.

That seemed to catch Ford off guard though, making him lower the gun a little more. “You’ve been…” he tilted his head, then immediately tensed once more. “Why should I believe you?”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Because it’s me, your dumb brother, okay. The same reasons we always believe each other. C’mon, I thought we were getting past all this _trust no one_ junk.” He held out his hands, showing that they were empty. “Right?”

For a long, long moment, the hooded figure of his brother neither moved nor spoke. Then - without letting go of the gun, he eased the goggles off his face and pulled down the scarf covering his face, staring at Stan with an expression that Stan couldn’t read.

“Right” said Stan, nervously. “Well, you wanna…” he gestured awkwardly. “Get back to the boat? If you’re still mad at me about that dumb thing earlier, I vote you do your being mad somewhere where we’re not _both_ likely to freeze to death.”

Ford narrowed his eyes, and Stan noticed the deep, weary shadows that had suddenly appeared beneath them, caught in the harsh light. His face seemed different, somehow, in a way Stan could not quite place. Harder, far more worn and weary than when he had left Stan at the dock not so long ago.

“Boat?” asked Ford dubiously. “What boat?”

Foreboding prickled down Stan’s spine, colder still that the snow. “You… you gotta be kidding, Ford. And… where did you get those clothes?” He laughed out of pure nervousness. “Don’t tell me you brought along your sci-fi action hobo outfit with us. That’s the last thing we need.”

His words fell flat, into dead silence.

“Ford…”

“Tell me what you’re doing here, Stanley” snapped Ford, his jaw set, tension in every line of him. “What dimension is this?”

The foreboding became a wave of molten dread. “C-c’mon, Ford… joking about losing your memory… that’s not funny, you know it’s not…” he laughed humourlessly. “Besides, that’s _my_ thing, right?”

Ford stiffened, hand going to his gun again. He tilted his head a little, as though in confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. No one can touch my memories now, I can assure you” he said coldly.

“You sure about that?” Stan growled, beginning to feel the beginnings of anger. Well, mostly just hurt, if he was honest. They had argued earlier, yes, but it was so stupidly inconsequential, it barely justified… well, whatever _this_ was. “Seems to me you’re acting like a whole different person.”

Ford’s eyes widened suddenly, his face turning a little softer for just a second before his scowl returned. “I’ll ask again, Stanley” he said. “What dimension is this?”

“Uh…” Stan thought perhaps he should play along, but the problem was he didn’t really know how. “The regular one? Earth?”

Ford tutted derisively.

“Hey! I don’t know what your problem is right now… but assuming you’re not… I don’t know, possessed by some…” he winced as alarm shot through Ford’s stance, “….okay, okay, uh, bad example, I mean… assuming you didn’t drink some magic unicorn potion that makes you act like a complete jerk all of a sudden…”

“There’s no such thing as magic unicorn potion” said Ford flatly. “Trust me, they don’t need to drink any potion to be jerks.”

“Yeah! Right! So it’s just _you_ being a jerk” Stan glared at him, poking him in the chest. “Imagine what Dipper and Mabel would think if they saw you acting like this again, huh?”

Stan was not sure what reaction he had been expecting, but he didn’t get it.

Ford frowned, looking genuinely perplexed. “Stanley, what are you _talking_ about? Who are Dipper and Mabel?”

Stan froze, speechless for a long, long moment. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am serious in that I don’t know what you are talking about.” Ford hesitated. “I… I know this is Earth, but…” he looked around, “ _which_ Earth?”

 _He thinks he’s still somewhere out there, travelling between worlds_ , thought Stan with horror. He didn’t know how or why, but apparently Ford didn’t seem to remember anything that had happened in the last year. _But he must! Let him understand, let it be some sort of mistake_ …

“Ford? Don’t you…. don’t you remember?”

His face darkened. “I remember how you pushed me into the portal.”

“No, be serious… don’t you remember…. anything else?”

Ford merely raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Oh… wow okay. You’re serious.” He clasped and unclasped his hands, nervously. “Uh… Ford… I don’t know what happened to you in the…” he glanced down at his watch, “…couple hours since we you went off without me, but - ”

“ _Hours_?” interrupted Ford. “Stanley, I think you’ve miscalculated. Perhaps age is getting the better of you - “

“Hey!”

“You’ve aged far more than a few hours since I left.” Ford squinted, prodding Stan’s nose and the wrinkles under his eye with a finger until Stan swatted him away. “About the same amount as I have I would say, thirty years, plus or minus approximately five years.” He scrutinised Stan’s appearance even more closely. “Hmm. Perhaps plus, rather than minus.”

“I resent that, you know.”

“But anyway, my point _is_ ” said Ford smoothly, “I hardly think I could have inadvertently time-travelled, whatever dimension I ended up in.” He drew back his sleeve, peering closely at a small black device covered in blinking lights strapped to his wrist, and rapped the side of it with his knuckles. “Unless this thing is _really_ malfunctioning, but I did just do some upgrades on it not too long ago… it _has_ been glitchy lately though…”

And suddenly, it all came clear to Stan, in a rush.

Because he’d seen that strange gadget that Ford had, the one he had relied on for thirty years to jump between worlds. _What did he call it? His dimensional translator?_ Ford kept the thing in the drawer of his cramped writing desk in the cabin, and though he would never have to use it again, Stan knew Ford had kept it for - roughly - the same reason he himself had kept his favourite fake IDs from over the years; because it had seen him safe through not a few situations he hadn’t expected to get out of in one piece.

But that didn’t matter now.

What mattered now, was that this dimensional translator looked _different_ from the one in Ford’s desk back on the _Stan O’ War II_.

“Upgrades?” said Stan. “When? How long ago?”

“Oh, about three point five…” Ford looked up into the dark sky, calculating in his head. “Well, it would be approximately six hundred and seventy-two Earth hours, give or take an hour or so for the accumulated uncertainty due to time dilation while in transit across the dimensional boundaries.”

Stan gave him a withering look.

“About a month ago.” Ford gestured impatiently. “What does it matter?”

“And… you were out in… I dunno, space? At that time?”

“….Well, I was on the small desert planet of Raxxelon in Dimension 84** at that point, earning money as a basket weaver amongst a race of large purple shrew-like beings. Also going to night school to learn seven-dimensional electrical engineering with vortex manipulation, so that I could fix the damn thing in the first place. It’s amazing how much the Raxxelari prize understanding of braiding to make their sacred baskets - I took topology in college and also my extra fingers mean I can hold on to more strands at once. They only have three fingers per hand, so naturally I was much revered and praised. But the funny thing is, what we would call high-tech industry is common as mud! A fascinating culture. Of course, there was a sense in which it could be said that I was temporarily _stuck_ there, but really…” he tailed off. “What?”

Stan was silent for a long time; he had stopped listening a while ago.

“Stanley?”

“You… you never came home” said Stan, voice a little hoarse. “You’re… one of the ones who never made it.” Ford had told him about this, to an extent. Parallel versions of everyone, scattered throughout the multiverse. Some versions of them, anyway. Most people never knew anything but the dimension they were born, lived and died in. But some other versions of Ford also fell through the portal, one way or another. Hell, Stan was sure some versions of himself fell through the portal too, but he hardly thought they would survive very long.

But that was not the point here.

The point here, was that this was Ford, but not _his_ Ford.

“Never made it?” Ford asked, his face no longer angry, or afraid, merely quizzical. “What do you mean by that?”

“Didn’t you… didn’t I… did no one reopen the portal?”

“Open the portal!” exclaimed Ford in alarm. “I should hope not! That would be horribly dangerous!”

Stan’s felt his heart grow heavy. But he saw that once more, his brother - his brother, yes, but not _his_ brother - staring at him. “Eh. Look who’s talking.”

“…Fair. But Stanley, I think…” said Ford tentatively. “I think you’d better tell me everything.”

* * *

“…So yeah. That’s… about it, really.”

They sat behind the fogged up glass of a cafe drinking tiny overpriced cups of strong coffee, Ford drawing stares with his strange clothes and his wild appearance. Ford had paid for their drinks by waving a small, metal disc in front of the cash register, which had pinged, played a short tinny tune that Stan was almost _sure_ it wasn’t supposed to be able to and promptly printed out a receipt, much to the surprise of the young barista. Perhaps _paid_ wasn’t quite the right word, Stan thought, but either way he thought it best not to ask.

Besides, that was probably the _least_ weird part of this. The entire situation felt distinctly surreal, heightened as his standards for such things were. _At least he put the space guns away_ , Stan had thought when they came into the place.  

Now, perhaps an hour or so later, Ford was staring blankly into the drying dregs of his coffee, apparently lost in thought over what Stan had told him.

Just when Stan was about to ask a question, Ford looked up abruptly, staring intently into his eyes. “I knew that Bill had been defeated, about… well, several months ago. The news shook the multiverse, throwing whole dimensions into anarchy, but saving so many more, for all time, as had been prophesied…” Ford looked stunned. “So… that was _you_?”

“Well… kinda” said Stan, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I don’t know much about the multiverse, but I did punch that triangular jerk right in his eye. While you… while Ford… uh… while this world’s you… erased my memory. So yeah. I guess it was kind of… us? And the kids.” He grinned. “He did call me a hero, but it was Mabel that saved me, eventually. Saved both of us.”

Ford nodded slowly. There was wearing a strange expression, somewhere between a smile and a grimace of pain, as he passed a hand over his face, muttering something under his breath.

“Ford…? You okay?”

“ _Yes_.”

The answer came too abruptly, and Stan didn’t buy it for a second. “No you’re not. C’mon, you know you were never good at lying to me, Sixer.”

Ford’s face twitched at the old nickname, which Stan had used without thinking, but nothing more. “I just thought the one to destroy Bill would be…” he coughed awkwardly, apparently changing his mind. “It’s just… a lot” he said, looking up at Stan. “But… these kids… I have a great-niece and great-nephew?”

“Yeah!” said Stan, brightening. If there was one thing he could do, it was gush about the kids. He rooted in his pocket for his wallet and the picture he kept there, taken at Dipper and Mabel’s thirteenth birthday party. Dipper had snapped a photo of himself and Mabel with Ford’s bulky old polaroid camera, the twins’ faces large and grinning and excited in the foreground, the top of Waddles’ head just visible. In the background were Stan and Ford, caught unawares in the picture while laughing about something together, their arms around each other’s shoulders. Stan couldn’t remember what they had been laughing about, but it was his favourite photo or all four of them. He pushed it across the table. “They’re Shermie’s grandkids. Look, this is Dipper, and this is Mabel. They’re great kids. Dipper’s into nerdy weirdness and crazy science stuff, just like you! Mabel’s a terrifying force of nature and glitter. And I would punch a million nightmare demons in the face to save either one of ‘em, any day of the week.”

“…I see. And they’re twins?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And… in your dimension… _this_ dimension… I get to meet them?”

“Yeah, sure!” said Stan. “Dipper was hanging on your every word from the moment I brought you back, following you around like a lost puppy. You sent Mabel on a magic unicorn quest or something. These days we talk over the phone every couple days. They always ask you for help with their math homework.” Stan grinned. “It’s great! You… he…” again, he was wondering what terms to use to speak about this, when he saw Ford’s face. “Uh…”

He was holding the picture in both hands, looking at it very intently. “I’ll never… get to meet them, I suppose” said Ford, his voice brittle.

Cold washed over Stan as he realised that was probably true. “Uh… no, Ford, c’mon, you don’t know that…”

“I do know that. I’ve more or less given up hope of ever getting home, now.”

Stan shifted uncomfortably. “You got here, right?”

“Well, yes” admitted Ford. “Using my dimensional translator like this means I have a very, very small, but non-zero chance of winding up back in my own dimension, just by pure chance.”

“Right! _Non_ -zero!” said Stan.

But Ford was shaking his head. “You don’t understand, Stanley. Non-zero is _effectively_ zero, in this case. When there are so many dimensions that are analogous to my own - and there _are_ a lot of them, infinitely many in fact, and I’ve only been to a handful even now - I could get back there tomorrow, but the chances that I won’t are overwhelmingly high. Just look at your world! If you hadn’t rebuilt the portal…” he frowned. “ _Not_ a course of action I approve of, by the way, even if it did turn out all right in the end…”

“…Seriously? You’re doing this?”

“…If you hadn’t rebuilt the portal, your version of me would have remained lost in the multiverse for the rest of his life, with probability approaching one. Any possibility that he could have returned home by pure statistical accident would be… an indistinguishable blip, a rounding error. And even if I did return to my own dimension, the chances that I’d end up on Earth of all places are… well, another vanishingly small probability. No, to get back, I’d need someone to build the portal once more, and _that must never happen again_.”

“Why?” demanded Stan, his hands balling into fists. “Look, I don’t know what your version of me is playing at, but if he didn’t bring you back he better have a damn good excuse.” He thought wildly of all the times he himself had nearly died then, a sick dread coiling in him. “So you better _play_ those long odds, Sixer, so you can get back to him and punch him in the face for me.”

Ford stared at him.

“Bill is dead now, right?”

“Yes, but - ”

“So _your_ Stan rebuilding the portal wouldn’t endanger everything in the same way, right?”

That made Ford’s eyes widen. “Well, yes Bill might be gone, but the Nightmare Realm will probably be _highly_ unstable now, making it potentially even _more_ dangerous than before.”

“Psh. _Probably. Potentially_.”

“I’m being serious, Stanley!”

“So am I! Look, look, I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I’m just sayin’, don’t give up just yet, Poindexter. Being on your own always did make you crazy.” An idea came to him suddenly. “You said you’d been to a bunch of dimensions like your own.”

Ford gave him a suspicious look. “Yes, I have.”

“Well, why not just… stop in one? Stay there? Why not stay in _this_ one? Sure it might not be your own, but…” he was scrabbling for words now. “Surely it’s better than travelling for the rest of your life?”

Ford looked pained. “If I could do that, don’t you think I would have already?”

“Uhhh… no, because you’re too damn convinced that you have to suffer!” Stan glared at him. “I know you, you think that the only way you can fix your mistakes is by pushing yourself away from everyone. But it’s not, Ford. You can stay here, with me and my brother.”

“No I can’t!”

“Why not?”

Their voices had risen, and, Stan noticed, several other people in the cafe were discretely shifting seats away from them.

“Because” hissed Ford, “there’s no place for me here! Literally!”

“Ha!” said Stan triumphantly, punching Ford playfully, trying to break the tension. “You mean _figuratively_! Grammar, Stanford!”

“No” said Ford, unmoved. “I mean _literally_. And it’s _usage_ , anyway, rather than grammar, but even so I was correct.”

Stan folded his arms. “Get to the point, nerd.”

“If I stayed in another dimension, particularly one with people I know and care about, there’s too high a chance I would meet myself. You even suggested that very thing! Are you insane?”

That caught Stan off guard. “…Huh?”

“Even this…” Ford gestured around them. “Even this is a risk. Do you have any idea what would happen if I… if your brother, from this dimension… walked in that door right now?”

“Uh… everyone in this place would think we were triplets? I dunno, maybe it would be kinda awkward?”

“No, Stanley….” Ford considered. “Well, maybe for a moment it would be kinda awkward… but all awkwardness would be forgotten when this whole dimension was annihilated in a burst of pure energy!”

Stan was silent for a moment. “So that’s a thing, huh? As in…” he gestured. “ _BOOM!_ ”

“Yes” said Ford solemnly. “That is, indeed, a thing.” He reflected for a moment. “Well, more like… KABLAM!” He made the motion of a dramatic explosion in the air between them, then stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Not that anyone actually knows for certain what it sounds like, as by definition a such a universe is entirely wiped out of existence and its timeline’s record officially closed in the Great Archival Library of Exkheliar 81… I suppose a time traveller might be able to do it if they went back to right before the timeline terminated and got out at exactly the right moment, but it would be _unimaginably_ risky…”

“Look, does it matter? And why didn’t you tell me about this before?” said Stan, poking this version of Ford in the chest across the table. “You’d think that was… I don’t know, kind of a key piece of information here…”

“I thought that much would be obvious!”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t think that word means what you think it means.” He paused. “Nah, course you wouldn’t get that reference, spaceman.” he sighed, resignedly. “Alright. Well, we can’t let you near my brother Ford, so we’ll just have to avoid him - ”

“What!” Ford actually jumped up out of his seat, looking around in alarm. “He’s here in the city?”

“Yeah, went off on his own several hours ago” said Stan.

“Do you realise how much danger you’ve been putting the whole world in by not telling me this?” He looked truly disturbed. “I could have run into my double at any moment! He could walk in that door right now! Did you not consider that?”

Stan was suddenly glad his own Ford was rarely this insufferable. He glared back across the table. “I _told_ you, I didn’t know about the world-is-gonna-explode thing until you just told me!”

“…Huh” said Ford, furrowing his brow. He seemed like he was searching for the right thing to say. “I suppose…” he said at last, “I suppose I should leave as soon as possible, then.”

“…..Yeah. Guess that’s for the best.”

* * *

“Well… uh… I suppose this is goodbye then, Stanley.”

They stood in the square under a tree, snow whispering down in the harsh orange glow of the streetlamps. It was starting to come down heavily, the wind biting cold. Stan saw Ford suppress a shiver, drawing his coat closer about him, pulling his goggles up onto his forehead, though not yet putting them on.

“Yeah” Stan replied. “Guess it is.”

He hesitated, and the silence between them stretching out as the snow swirled. Ford didn’t move or speak either, staring back at him with an odd expression on his face.

“I would say we might meet again” said Stan, “but, you know, with all those crazy small probabilities you were talking about…”

“Yes, best not to speculate on such things” said Ford hastily. There was another silence, this time a painfully long one, filled with things that neither of them knew how to say. Stan winced inwardly; for all they had talked for the last… hour? several hours? It was so unrelentingly dark here for so much of the time that Stan felt strangely unsure of the passing of hours - it felt like trying to have a civilised conversation with his own brother, right after he had come from the portal. That was, painful and unnecessarily, frustratingly difficult.

At last, Ford pulled his goggles over his eyes, hefted the bundle he carried on his back. “Well, this world is not meant for me. Give my regards to your brother.” He raised his hands. “Let’s see where I end up.” At this last, he pushed the button on the dimensional translator strapped to his wrist, with a flourish.

Absolutely nothing happened.

Ford looked surprised for a brief moment, then frowned and tapped the side of the little device and pressed a few more buttons, provoking a flurry of blinking red lights, and a sad little warning bleep.

Ford’s eyes widened slightly in alarm.

“What?” asked Stan, tilting his head. “That thing broken or something?”

“It… it can’t be” said Ford, gritting his teeth and looking around. “No, no, not now, not while every moment I’m here I’m risking - ”

“Calm down!” soothed Stan, hardly believing that he was saying this, that he was even in this situation. “You said it was glitchy, and you fixed it before… you can fix it again, right?”

“Of course I could” snapped Ford. “If I had the right supplies! But even though I have been away thirty years, I doubt this world has developed far enough technologically that I would be able to find a quadruple X microfusion hydrogen cell in a pinch. Not to mention the rewiring… from what I’ve heard, this world probably doesn’t even _have_ room temperature superconductors yet! Plus, the K127X is something of an antiquated model now, and you wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find the right type of screwdriver to get the back off. I lost mine, and the company that used to make them went under years ago, and you can’t get one for love nor… what?”

Stan was smiling, and then smiling wider, the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind. “Maybe you don’t have the right stuff to fix it” he said. “But I think I know who just might.”

“You… you don’t mean… _Stanley, no!_ ” Ford hissed. “ _Please_ tell me you don’t mean your version of me!”

“Huh, maybe you are as smart as you look.”

“And you’re crazy! You _can’t_ tell him about me!”

“Why not?” demanded Stan. “You said the world would explode if you two met, right?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“So if I bring this thing to Ford, he can go back to the boat and fix it, I bring it back to you all nice and good as new, off you go.” He grinned. “Smart, right?”

Ford frowned, looking like he was fighting an internal battle.

Stan knew that look. He sighed and folded his arms. “Look, Poindexter. I know you’re big on not letting anyone help you, on working alone, all that…”

“I never said…”

“No, listen. I know you feel like you don’t belong here, and, hell, maybe you don’t, if only because your presence might blow this whole dimension sky high. But that _doesn’t matter_ , okay? My brother knows there are other versions of him running around, I’m sure he does. He’d want to help you. And…” he stared defiantly into the other Ford’s eyes. “So do I. So just shut up and let us.”

“…S-Stanley, I - ”

But whatever he was going to say was drowned out by the loud sound of a suddenly approaching siren behind them, making them both flinch violently, grasping on to each other reflexively to keep from losing footing on the rapidly thickening layer of new-fallen snow on the street. Then there were flashing lights, catching the snowfall in their blue and red beams as a police car barrelled around the corner.

The car came to a halt a little way along the street, and several police officers jumped out, heavily bundled in warm jackets and scarves, as well as a young girl who looked oddly familiar. Yet Stan couldn’t quite place her, at least not until she yelled down the street, pointing right at him.

“ _Það er hann!_ ”

Stan didn’t know what that meant, but he could get the general idea quite easily, especially when the police officers started running down the street towards him. He also recognised the girl now, and he swore loudly. _The one from the souvenir shop!_ He gritted his teeth. It would do neither Ford, nor Ford, nor himself any good at all if he were to get arrested for shoplifting right now.

“Stanley would you like to tell me what’s going on? What did you _do_?” demanded Ford. “Because let me tell you, I am ninety-nine percent certain that it’s not me they’re after… not in this dimension anyway…”

“No time to explain!” said Stan, grabbing Ford’s sleeve and dragging him along.

“But - ”

“Talk less, run more!”

Ford huffed a sigh. “As though that’s not what I do every day…”

And then they were running, half slipping along the wet paving slabs with the snow blowing in their eyes, their twin shadows growing longer and shorter and sweeping along in time as they ran under the street lamps. They dodged a snow-plow trundling along the street and ran into a back alley, another stray cat darting away with a startled yowl as they came, Stan swearing loudly as he nearly tripped on an uneven cobble.

Another siren wailed, somewhere ahead of them, beyond where the lane split in two ahead, going off the left and the right.

“Damn it!” Stan skidded to a halt, pressing his back against the wall, hidden between two tall, precarious stacks of empty plastic crates behind a minimarket, rapidly becoming blanketed with snow. He could still hear their pursuers from behind too. The siren was no longer moving, but he could hear raised voices and running footsteps from beyond the far row of houses.

Ford pressed his back up against the wall beside Stan. “You go ahead” he said, reaching for something inside his coat with a gloved hand. “I’ll distract the ones behind…”

“You knucklehead, I’m not leaving you…”

“That’s not what I’m suggesting.” Ford gave him a little push. “Go on!” he hissed, producing a laser gun from within his coat with a slightly unhinged sort of grin.

Stan raised his eyebrows. “Uh… what’re you going to…”

“Go!”

“Okay, okay!”

He began to run down the alley, darting glances behind him. Surely Ford wasn’t going to harm anyone with that thing? His brother wouldn’t do that, not here, not if the cops were just trying to do their jobs by chasing down a shoplifter.

But this wasn’t _his_ Ford, said a small voice in the back of his head, insistent and growing louder. He didn’t know what this man who had never returned to his family would do, not really.

He was just about to turn back - visions filling his head of the wild paranoia and desperation that he had once seen in his brother’s eyes coming to the fore in this version of Ford - when he saw a brilliant red flash, the sound of the laser charging and firing immediately drowned by an almighty clattering of plastic against wet ground, followed by an explosion of snow filling the air momentarily with white; Stan felt a flash of dread at what he might see when it cleared.

But after a mere moment, it passed.

“There. That should hold them off for a while!”

There was Ford, black clothes dusted with snow and looking very pleased with himself in front of a huge pile of fallen crates, entirely barricading the narrow alley. With a flourish, he spun his laser gun around his thumb and holstered it again. “Well? What are you doing just standing there? Run!”

He did. Ford was some way behind him, Stan could hear his footsteps, crunching on the snowy ground.

Stan was just turning back to look at him as he turned the corner, which was, perhaps, why he didn’t see the figure looming out from under the streetlight until it was too late. A scant moment later, they were colliding painfully, skidding on the slick ground and - inevitably - crashing painfully to the ground in a tangle of flailing limbs and a large spray of snow, knocking the breath out of him.

But though Stan was dimly aware that this would hurt tomorrow, he was immediately scrambling up to his feet, away from the other man who was now lying spread-eagled and winded on the ground. Stan realised that he had gotten lucky; he fall had been cushioned, but this guy had had the worst of it. Not that Stan spent much time thinking about that. His heart was still beating fast from the chase, and he was up again in only a few moments, about ready to carry on running, flinging a hasty apology over one shoulder.

That was when he saw the glint of a pair of glasses, as the man he had run right into groaned and sat up in the snow, a very familiar face squinting in complete confusion.

“…Stanley?”

At that Stan, to his own complete surprise, burst out laughing. But his laughter only lasted for an instant before being replaced by a shock of fear running through him at the sight of his brother - yes, _his_ brother - sitting in the snow blinking and rubbing his head.

…Even as the _other_ Ford was about to come running around the corner behind Stan at any moment.

“Ah…” said Stan, “Ford… I’ll explain later! Gotta just…” he gestured vaguely behind him. “Got something to… uh… attend to.”

Ford looked doubtful. “Around that corner?”

“…Yes.”

And without waiting to hear his brother’s protests, he forced his tired body back into motion - he hadn’t quite realised just how much running he had done today - and barrelling back around the corner.

Only to run headlong into his brother.

“Aw, c’mon!” Stan yelled at the sky, as he hit the ground - he was well-cushioned by his heavy cold weather gear, not to mention the amount of shoplifted merchandise he still had stuffed in his jacket, including an entire sweater - only to have the breath knocked out him once more as Ford fell on top of him, laser gun slamming painfully into Stan’s ribs. “What did I do to deserve this, huh?” Stan reflected. “…Recently…”

“Stan, what is going on?” asked the other Ford, pulling Stan up by the hand, his breath coming in quick, nervous bursts. “Did they see you? Who were you talking to?”

“Uh…” _No time to explain_ , thought Stan. “Ford, I’m very sorry for what I’m about to do.”

Behind them was a wheeled, industrial-sized recycling bin. Stan heaved open the lid, his eyes always flicking back around to the corner, lest he need to quickly run and stop _his_ Ford from peering around to where they were.

“Stan, I mean it, tell me what… _augh_! Hey! What’re you - mph! Stanley! What are you _doing_?”

“…Saving the world!” For Stan had scooped up and dropped his brother neatly in the huge bin, studiously ignoring his yells of protest, and closed the lid. “Hey, I said I was sorry! But… you gotta stay in there for a bit, unless you want to world to explode, alright? And don’t open the lid too much…”

A gasp, and a halt in the hammering on the inside of the lid. “You don’t mean it’s… uh… your brother…”

“Cottoned on, have you, genius?” Stan lifted the lid a little, peering tentatively in to be met with Ford’s wide-eyed and anxious-looking gaze. He smiled sympathetically. “Just… stay in there for a bit, huh?”

“…Fine” came Ford’s muffled voice. “Yes, I can see the logic to this plan.”

They were both silent for a moment, then Ford gave a slightly mournful sigh, filtering through the gap below the lid. “Stanley, do you ever reach a point where you wonder just how you came to this point and where your life is destined to go from here?”

“…Honestly? All the fucking time.”

As if on cue, at the end of his words there came the wail of police sirens.

Two sets, one from the way they had come - they must have gotten through the barrier, he realised - and one from around the nearest corner of the street, _in fact just where he had left_ …

“ _Stopp!_ _Þ_ _ú ert handtekinn!_ ”

“Hey! I don’t know what this is but I can _assure_ you that I am innocent! Are those handcuffs? What… Stanley! I know you can hear me! What did you _do_?”

Stan sighed inwardly at the sound of voices from around the corner. “Huh” he said aloud. “Guess I better go and stand by my brother’s side or somethin’…” He frowned, unzipping the front of his jacket, taking out the stolen items and looking at them for a moment. Sure, these gifts weren’t anything special, but now that he had come so far with them he felt the stubborn need to get away with this. “…Guess I should at least try and hide the evidence…” As far as petty crime was concerned, after all, Stan practically had a standard to uphold by now. After thinking for a moment, he bundled the gifts for Dipper and Mabel up in the sweater, and opened the lid of the recycling bin once more. “Pst. Sixer.”

A pair of bespectacled brown eyes appeared in the gap, looking rather put out. “…What.”

“Can you look after something for me? Nothing dangerous, I promise!” Stan reassured hastily.

Ford rolled his eyes, sighing. “Fine. I’ll hold your incriminating evidence.”

Stan grinned, passing him the bundled sweater, ruffling Ford’s hair before he could protest. “Thanks. That’s all I ask” Then he straightened his jacket, clenched his fists about the brass knuckles in pockets - which he was only going to use if the situation _really_ went south, he assured himself - and stepped around the corner into the flashing red and blue lights.

* * *

“So, yeah, that was the last I saw of him” said Stan, as they walking out of the police station in the dim twilight of a short winter day, Ford drawing his collar up against the sudden blast of cold wind. “I assume I don’t have to tell you what happened then…”

Ford grimaced. “No, I remember us being arrested just fine, thank you Stanley” he said ruefully. “I must say, whatever I had expected this stop on land to bring, it was not spending the night in an Icelandic police cell because of bureaucratic confusion over twins with similar names who may or may not be either shoplifters or have ties to international terrorists…”

“Hey, chin up Sixer, at least we got off scot-free…”

“No thanks to you, you knucklehead! What the heck did you do with my name all those years that meant their system automatically alerted Interpol when the name Stanford Pines came up, huh?”

Stan glared back at him with folded arms. “Nothing you wouldn’t do yourself! Definitely nothing involving trading spare nuclear waste with some friendly, honest guys in a parking lot… nuh-uh… and even if I did it was just good business practice… wore safety gloves and everything…”

Ford smacked his forehead. “I’m glad that at the very _least_ you didn’t leave enough evidence for them to keep us there any longer…”

Stan gave his brother an injured look. “C’mon. What kind of criminal would I be if I had?”

“Please, I don’t want to speculate. But talking of lack of a trail, I do wonder who this anonymous person who paid our bail money might be” said Ford, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I wonder if…”

“Yeah, it was probably your clone” said Stan. “He had some kinda magic credit card thing…”

“Well he’s not my clone, he’s my alternate self” Ford stared at the sky, a look of reminiscence on his face. “And it wasn’t a magic credit card, it was a universal currency chip, loaded with the credit I… he… we? scraped together to survive in the multiverse.”

“Okay, whatever, fine” conceded Stan, as they crossed the street. “I can believe that. But that idiot, I thought I told him to stay in there until it was safe…”

“Yeah! That’s another thing, Stanley! I can’t believe you consigned him to the dumpster!”

“It was actually a recycling bin, I’ll have you know” said Stan. “This is a very environmentally conscious country…”

“Hmph.” Ford folded his arms sulkily. “Still.”

Stan faltered. “Ford.”

His brother looked up. “What?”

“Are you still mad at me?”

Ford blinked. “Mad at you? What are you talking about?”

“You heard me.”

“Didn’t I let you sleep propped up against me in that police cell all night? Does that sound like the act of someone who’s mad at you?”

“Well… no…” said Stan, folding his arms defensively. “It’s just… yesterday! When we tied up the boat and you stormed off, into the city… what was that about, huh? If it’s something I did…”

Ford’s eyes went wide. “Stanley, I didn’t storm off, I…” he fell silent for a moment, simply staring blankly, then ran his hands through the front of his hair, his face falling. “Oh no. I… I did, didn’t I?”

“Well, it sure seemed like it” said Stan, raising an eyebrow.

“Stanley…” Ford placed a gloved hand on his shoulder. “I should have told you, I’m sorry. But, that morning, just as we were coming into port…”

“Yeah?” prompted Stan. “What?”

“That morning, my instruments detected a vast spike of interdimensional energy. The waveform looked exactly like the characteristic signal of a temporary gateway being made… which could only mean someone was crossing to or from this dimension, and nearby, too.”

“Well” said Stan, frowning at how aggrieved his brother looked. “We know someone _was_ , right?”

“Yes” said Ford, with a slight laugh. “Yes, well, now we do. But the possibility that it could be _me_ … a version of me, that never made it back… never actually crossed my mind. Call me stupid, but I thought…”

“What?”

“I thought that it was someone coming after me! Or worse, after _you_!” blurted out Ford. There was tension in his face, a rather desperate look in his eyes. “Listen, Stanley, when I was on my own in the multiverse, I… I made enemies. There were those that were working for Bill, and the bounty hunters I had to constantly evade, and there were those that I had to trick and slip away from, and there were their allies. Many of these people have the capability to come to this dimension and finish me off, if they could trace me here. I just… I just didn’t want my past catching up with _either_ of us!” He stared down into his empty hands, looking regretful. “I mean, there’s no reason to suspect they could find me. Some might even call it paranoid…” Ford winced. “But when those readings started, and it became clear that someone had entered from another dimension nearby, that was my first hypothesis. My next was even worse. I thought maybe…”

“Yes?”

“I thought maybe they were after _you_.” Ford’s hands clasped and unclasped. “Bill’s downfall would have shaken the multiverse; whole worlds were controlled by him, slave worlds filled with people whose mindscapes he used as a sort of mental playground their whole lives, possessed from the moment they were born to the moment they died. Can you imagine that, Stanley? Those worlds would have fallen into chaos. And not just them. Many powerful leaders of so-called free worlds were secretly under Bill’s sway, hypnotised by the promise of endless power, infinite wealth, or just told that they were the cleverest, most glorious and powerful person in the universe. He was a Muse; he inspired. That’s what he _did_.” Bitterly, Ford clenched his fists in their warm red gloves, specially knitted for him by Mabel, to match Stan’s. “And some…” he shook his head. “I feared that some of those people had been caught up in that illusion for too long, so that when he died they would have gone looking for revenge. And… and this time, it would be _you_ they were after.”

Stan was silent for a long, long time. “Why… why didn’t you tell me?” he asked at last.

Ford seemed to mull this over. “Because… I suppose, because you were happy.”

“Yes, but…” Stan shook his head. Then he glared at Ford, poking him in the chest. “I’m happy if you _talk_ to me, knucklehead. Didn’t we… I dunno… agree that was a thing we were going to do now?”

Ford smiled a little, looking down. “Yeah. I guess we did.”

“Right. And _if_ anyone comes from space for either of us, we work together to punch and science them right out of this dimension and back to where they came from, right?”

Ford smiled, a true smile this time. “That… actually sounds like as good a plan as any, you know.”

“Good” said Stan. “Now, shall we go and find this alternate version of you again? Much as he was kind of a jerk, I guess we owe him some thanks.”

“Yes” said Ford. “I wish I could go with you! Meeting myself would be fascinating! But unfortunately…”

“Yeah, yeah” said Stan. “I know the world would go _KABLAM_ if you guys met each other. We had that little chat already.”

“Well, actually,” said Ford, gesturing in the air between them, “technically, it’s more like a _BOOM!_ sort of situation…”

* * *

Stan stood at the edge of the square he had come to yesterday. It was growing dark again now, but the storm of the night before had blown past, leaving the sky clear and bright, the iridescent green ribbons of the aurora draped above them in glowing curtains. A few people stood at the edge of the square, faces turned up towards the lights in the sky. Mostly, the place was deserted though. He wasn’t surprised; now that the storm had passed, it was bitingly cold, the air crisp and sharp, almost painful to breath for too long.

No, he realised, when he tore his gaze away from the lights overhead; there was one other person here. A black silhouette stood at the corner, outlined against the bright sky as the street opened before him. Stan could see the sea at the end of the street too; in this city in its curving inlet, the ocean was never far away, very often glimmering at the end of a road that sloped down to the seafront. So it was now, and for a moment it seemed the dark figure was caught between sea and sky, staring up and out in anticipation of another journey.

He turned just as Stan came up behind him, a slight twitch in his movements even now; a nervous reflex, Stan supposed, feeling a tug of guilt exactly like the ones he felt when his own Ford showed such signs.

“Stanley” said Ford, with a wry smile. “How was jail?”

“Eh, better than that place in Columbia. Also slightly better than pool jail. Those two were about equal.”

“Pool jail.” Ford stared at him questioningly.

“Uh. Kind of a long story. Anyway, thanks for bailing us out.”

“Glad to help. And is your brother alright?”

Stan nodded. “They made a big fuss over taking his fingerprints - apparently they didn’t have enough boxes - but he’s fine. Also he kept setting off metal detectors and no one could work out why… that one was pretty funny actually.”

“But you both got away okay?”

“Yeah. Ford’s grasp of Icelandic comes mostly from the Wikipedia phrasebook page, but somehow he managed to make _I’ve got a metal plate in my head_ clear in the end. They even gave him back his fancy laser gun. Talk about considerate.”

“Good. Oh! And I have your stolen loot, as long as you don’t mind it having been in a dumpster with me, for some time. You can wash it, I guess.”

Stan grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah… sorry about that whole… dumpster thing.”

“It’s okay. It wasn’t really a dumpster, it was more of a recycling bin anyway. And you did save the world.” Ford placed a bundle of wool, several polished stone eggs, and a sweater in his hands. “It was very cold in there, so I wore the sweater. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No” said Stan, thinking. “Actually, you know what? Keep it.”

“What?”

“Keep the sweater.” He pushed the bundle of red wool into Ford’s hands, on impulse. “I sort of… stole it accidentally anyway. And it’s not great for… uh… space camouflage, I guess, but it’ll suit you.”

Ford smiled, a little. “…Thanks, Stanley.”

“Least I can do” mumbled Stan. “S’not like I have anything else to give you.”

“You’ve given me plenty, Stanley.”

“Aw, can it with the sappy stuff. I’m just trying to measure up to my brother.” Stan slipped off the backpack he was carrying over his shoulders. “He wanted me to give you some stuff, too.”

Ford raised his eyebrows a little, not taking the bag. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” Stan opened the bag, taking out some items. “Knitted gloves, for when it gets cold. Our niece Mabel made them for him… six fingers, see!”

“Oh! But won’t he miss them?” his brow furrowed, turning the pair of bright pink gloves over in his hands. “And if she made them for him…”

“Eh.” Stan waved this off. “Mabel sends us more knitted things than we can possibly wear. Hell, if she knew we had met another Ford, she would probably give us a piece of her mind if we sent you off _without_ something she’d knitted.”

“…Right” said Ford doubtfully. He slipped off his leather gloves - which were wearing through at the fingertips, Stan noticed - and pulled on the knitted ones. “Hey, these _are_ warm!”

“Yeah. And there’s more too!” Stan opened the backpack further, taking out a plastic package. “Jellybeans” he said, watching Ford’s eyes light up like he hadn’t seen since they were kids. He held up another bag. “Assorted wires and batteries and interdimensional tech gizmos. His spare fountain pen, some blank paper and that ink you both like. There’s also a sealed note from him in there. Plus, one of those fancy screwdrivers you wanted.” Ford was grinning broadly, seemingly unable to speak as he tucked the gifts inside the bag slung over his own back.

“Oh, and one more thing” said Stan. “Here.”

Reaching into the bag, he quickly pulled out the last item, and set it in Ford’s hands, making him gasp in disbelief, nearly dropping it.

“His dimensional translator? He’s… he’s just _giving_ me this?”

“Yeah” said Stan. “Use it or don’t, or use it for spare parts when you fix your own. But that’s yours now. He figured you’d need it more than he would.”

“But…” stammered Ford. “I can’t take this. It’s too… he had it for thirty years! He can’t give it to me!”

“It’s his to give to whoever he wants” said Stan. “And anyway,” he added firmly, remembering Ford’s slightly melancholy smile when he had parted with it at the docks, “my brother ain’t leaving this dimension any time soon. He’s pretty sure of that, and so am I. So it makes sense for you to have it.”

“But…”

“Use it to get home” Stan interrupted, closing Ford’s hand firmly over the little device. “Your family’s waiting for you.”

“I might never get back to them. It’s overwhelmingly likely, in fact.”

“Yes” said Stan, his heart twisting in pain even as he tried to keep a straight face. “But… aw hell, I can’t believe I’m saying this schlocky optimistic stuff… yeah, you might not get back to them. Crazy probabilities and all. But you _could_.” He met Ford’s gaze, standing firm with his arms folded and his jaw set. “Right?”

What happened next took him entirely by surprise. The brother that was not his - and yet was his brother, at the same time - threw his arms around him in a tight hug that nearly squeezed the breath out of him. “Right” Ford whispered, before letting him go as quickly as he had hugged him, rather ineffectually trying to hide his slightly teary eyes.

“Anyway. Thanks” said Ford, as Stan recovered himself from his stunned state a little. He coughed and rubbed the back of his neck with a pink-gloved hand.

“Ahem. Well… time to move on?”

He nodded. “Maybe one day I’ll see you again.” He was not looking at Stan though when he said that, but at the bright, shining sky ahead.

“Yeah” said Stan, as Ford turned from him, pressed the button on the side of the dimensional translator and was consumed by a nimbus of blue-white light, arcing and crackling, then fading to leave only empty air. He turned back down to the street, beginning the walk back to the docks and his own brother, pulling his hat down over his ears against the chill. “Maybe.”


End file.
